


Morning Scene

by MJ (mjr91)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 13:47:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11336757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mjr91/pseuds/MJ
Summary: Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived atThe Basement, which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onThe Basement's collection profile.





	Morning Scene

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Morning Scene by MJ

21 September 1998  
Written for Dawn to cheer her up; checked by Te. Enjoy. MJ

* * *

Morning Scene  
By MJ

He looks across at me, wide-eyed and innocent, from the computer terminal. "The 'Net's down." A gulp from his JFK coffee mug, and he tightens the belt of his paisley robe. 

I look at the computer, then, again, at him. John Byers first thing in the morning, a sight to behold. I must be a wreck. Hair in my face, hanging in my eyes; my favorite Tasmanian Devil boxer shorts on, wrinkled. I sit on the edge of the bed, which still reeks of our lovemaking last night. God, I need a shower. Johnny's been up for an hour already, has showered, made coffee, piled up suits to drop off at the cleaner's, and is on the computer. "Let me try the other ISP," he sighs to me from the computer desk.

I look around the room. Wood paneling, oak four-poster bed with matching dressers and mirrors, an old oak desk converted to computer desk; Williamsburg-striped wallpaper above the paneling. Williamsburg blue drapes on the bedroom windows. Engravings of Franklin, Jefferson, and John Adams. Masculine. Tasteful. Clean, no pizza boxes under the bed. Definitely Johnny. Me? My mattress and box spring are on the floor, so pizza boxes can't go under the bed. I keep 'em in a green garbage bag at the side of the bed. Ramones posters and a great Patti Smith poster on the walls. An old Led Zeppelin concert poster. A wide-screen TV, its remote somewhere in my sheets; same for the stereo. Incredibly different lives the two of us have - or had, anyway, back before '89. Neither of us has changed that much personally even though we've become two of the three leaders of the Gunmen. All thanks to some broad named Susanne or something like that. Johnny is still neat, clean, well-read, anal-retentive, bureaucratic, and incredibly middle-class. I still carry a set of 20-sided dice for gaming in my jeans pocket and a Philips-head screwdriver for immediate computer repairs. He listens to Mozart, to opera. I listen to Dead Kennedys CD's and my old Black Sabbath albums. Johnny programs; I build and I hack. Johnny knows how to order food in restaurants with cloth napkins; I know how to order Chinese takeout and Italian anything.

I push my feet down on the floor hard, to give myself a boost off of the bed. I can stand now, sort of. That coffee of Johnny's looks and smells pretty damned good. Of course, so does Johnny. Where did I put my glasses last night? I stumble over to the desk, grab Johnny's coffee mug. "Yeah," I sigh; "that's a lot better." Squinting, I eyeball the keyboard as I slide an arm around Johnny's chest, reaching under his robe for his nipple. "Check the TCP/IP settings, Princess," I purr into his ear. He's wriggling his back against my chest as I work on his nipple. "Go ahead, check 'em." My tongue slides against an ear, then down the side of his neck. He reaches over for the mouse, but his hand's shaking like he's got Parkinson's Disease. After last night? I'm amazed he's still up for this.

"Uh... maybe later... I think this can wait until we get to headquarters..." His voice trails off as he stands. His robe's starting to fall open. Gorgeous skin he's got; I don't know how he got so lucky. Hard to keep my hands off of it - and why should I? I push the robe off of his shoulders and pull him to me. Johnny slides both arms around me, one hand in my hair. I'm amazed as usual; how can someone so personally fastidious stand me? I'm the proverbial mess, and he's got his hand in this nest of hair that must have a rat in it somewhere. As he brings his face to mine, I realize that I haven't brushed my teeth this morning. Still, that doesn't seem to be stopping him either. Of course, I asked for this, didn't I? I started it; he's ready to finish it.

Kissing me, running that hand further through my hair. That's no everyday morning hard-on I've got there; it's definitely courtesy of Johnny-boy. "Hey, Princess; I'm a mess. You sure we want to?"

"Mmmmm..." He's found my neck, and he's working his teeth in tiny little nibbles down to my chest. "You're right... why don't we take a shower and I'll wash your hair for you?" 

Yeah... it can wait until we get to headquarters.


End file.
